Next thing I know, my friend does not sound
like herself on the phone.
Her voice crawls on elbows through
the tunnel between us.
Dragging, unresponsive
as if her body's motor can't turn over.
The musical patterns remain--a few light notes,
a pulse of laugh, a few light notes,
another pulse. .
I think of ways to make her laugh
--it's always been so easy.
My thoughts remain out of sight
far from the tumor hidden like a stump
along the rolling hills of her brain.
I am told, let the patient lead conversation.
And so I wait for her next words.
While so, I recall the ceiling of chandeliers
at Home Depot.
Each a sparkling castle,
each crystal nudged by a gust
to tap against the edge
of the body of the other.
